


GMNMTJE one-shots

by SomewhereApart



Series: Give Me No More... verse [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Give Me No More Than Just Enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: Prompts etc. for the Give Me No More.... verse





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: GMNMTJE-verse: With toys

They’ve been living together for three weeks when he discovers it in her nightstand, alongside her lip balm, her body cream, her bottle of Advil. A sleek thing, smooth plastic and soft silicone, a button that brings the whole thing to buzzing, humming life.

She flushes pink when she realizes what he’s holding, stammers slightly and reaches for it. But he’s never seen this particular invention of the Other Land before, and he’s curious, asks her what it’s for, his grin going cheeky and sly as she blushingly explains it’s a device for pleasure that she has no use for now that he’s here and she could just as easily get rid of it—

He cuts her off, asks softly and without judgment or shame if she can show him how. To his pleasant surprise, she agrees, although her cheeks never dim, not until she’s naked and spread and flushed for a whole other reason, his hand over hers on the vibrator, his mouth over hers as she moans and quakes and writhes. She comes, and comes again, one orgasm spilling into the next and Robin thinks once again how wonderful the technological marvels of this world can be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:Three sentences based on that prompt — GMNMTJE: Regina gets a harsh version of bronchitis during the winter as a side effect of the illness she magically took from Roland. Robin comforts her. Bonus points for cuddling on the couch and Robin rubbing vapor rub on her chest or something. Not sexual, just intimate. ;)

It is winter again in Storybrooke, and much has changed since the last one: the grief of losing Marian has dulled to the same ebbing nostalgia of loss it had been before her return, and the wonder of life with Regina, well, it’s more than he can bear some days. He and Roland have practically moved in, spending most nights and every weekend at the house on Mifflin Street, especially in recent weeks, now that the ground is covered in a thick carpet of snow and the temperatures stay well below freezing, dropping down into what could easily be called bloody, ball-freezing frigid at night. Life is good, for the most part, and they are all hale and hearty, for the most part, but as the illness sweeping through town hits the Mills-Hood clan (once again, his doing, just like last year, just like the one that tore his world asunder and stitched it together again alike), he finds himself thinking of how they came to be here, and as always he feels the smallest tug of guilt (she still insists it is needless) for the sacrifice she’d made for him and Roland.

His guilt goes from mild to acute with just one off-handed sentence from Henry: “It’s weird, y’know, Mom never used to get sick.”

But sick she is, and miserably so. More so than he was, or Roland, or even Henry, who’d been out several days from classes with a stopped up nose and low fever. Regina carries illness in her chest now (always, it seems - Roland had the sniffles toward end of summer and she’d spent the next two weeks with a cough that wheezed), and this time she is ravaged. Fever-flushed, and weak, with glassy eyes and a chest that rattles and rumbles with every painful, percussive cough. She’s been voiceless for the past two days, a tight wheezing whisper the best she can manage – and to tell it true, Robin is grateful for it, because the bloody stubborn woman had been insisting on going into work even when she was gravel-voiced and dependent on lozenges and cough syrup to make it through a single bloody conversation. (He’s almost forgotten the scent of her without the medicinal undertones of cherry beneath her usual cinnamon and vanilla.)

It had taken the loss of her voice to fell her, but she has finally given in. Finally, she has conceded that she is unwell, and finally, she is accepting his care. It’s a true testament to how miserable she must feel that she has managed only one barb (her lack of voice has not lead to any lack of _trying_ to speak) about him skiving off work on the city dime to see to her.

There’s soup simmering on the stove, full of chicken and vegetables and healing broth, and he’s set her up in the study, buried in a nest of blankets with the sofa pointed at the TV so she doesn’t grow bored nor does she require the strength and clear-headedness to read. (She’s fairly doped on cough syrup today, and has finally admitted that it addles her brain a bit, makes her feel soporific and stupid. He wonders why she even bothered working for near on a full week once she began taking it, but that’s his stubborn lover.)

He’s been off in search of more healing balms - had quickly found the little blue plastic jar she’d sent him to retrieve, filled with a sticky salve that had made his eyes water at a single sniff, but a quick glance at the ingredients had had him frowning. Half of them unrecognizable, a jumble of chemical mess he quite frankly sees no need for when he’s everything he needs to create a proper salve right here in this home. So he’d raided her supplies for oils and wax, added the scents of eucalyptus and clove and peppermint and pine carefully droppered from green glass vials, and now he has the precious brew in a bowl cupped in his palms.

When he finally makes his way to her, she’s grouchy and suspicious, her voice trying its best at an accusatory, “What took you so long?” and managing only about a quarter of the vowels between her clipped consonants.

“Don’t strain your voice, my love,” he soothes as he sits beside her (tries to, anyway – she’s made a cocoon of her blankets that takes up most of the sitting space), and sets the bowl in his lap. “I was making this.”

The face she pulls is more pout than frown but there’s irritation in her gaze as she whispers, “Are we out of Vicks?”

“No, you are not,” he informs, “But it’s full of garbage. This will be better.”

Skeptical silence greets him in reply – a narrowed eye, a wrinkled brow. He’s more than happy to prove her wrong, though, so he urges her onto her back, bids her unbutton the top of her pajamas so that he might soothe her battered lungs. She does so, still scowling, and Robin makes a very concerted effort not to let his gaze linger on her breasts, every blessed bit of her still beautiful even in illness. (Alright, perhaps not the thick, greenish phlegm she’s been spitting into tissues after every session of deep, barking coughs, but the outside parts, they’re all lovely…)

Robin scoops up a bit of the salve (still warm and nearly melted it’s so soft) with his fingers and begins to rub it into the soft skin of her upper chest, reapplying as needed and watching Regina slowly relax, her eyes fluttering shut, her breaths coming a bit easier.

 _Vicks VapoRub has nothing on a good home remedy_ , Robin thinks smugly.

She murmurs something he cannot make out, and he’s loathe to encourage her into any sort of speaking, but his _Hmm?_ is voiced on reflex.

She clears her throat, coughs weakly and then repeats, “Smells like Christmas.”

Robin grins, then chuckles. He supposes she’s right. It rather does.

“Is it helping?” he asks gently, still rubbing soothing circles into her skin even though the balm is spread from collar to sternum and shoulder to shoulder.

Regina nods and burrows down into the pillows a bit, and Robin wonders if she’s cold. That simply won’t do.

He sets the bowl aside and buttons her back up, then rearranges her carefully constructed nest so that he can join her on the sofa, her body curled with his, the scent of healing all around them as he turns his face to the black and white picture on the TV.

He thinks to ask what they’re watching, but it will only spur her into speech again, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that she be well. So he cuddles her even closer, and coasts gentle fingertips along her arm, her shoulder, the side of her neck.

Before too long her eyes drop shut, and she’s snoring the rumbling wheezes of the ill, content simply to be with him, to let him care for her.

Robin presses a kiss into her hair and thinks he can probably live with the guilt of her lungs being weakened on his behalf if she lets him soothe her this way every time she falls ill.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 10 Sentence Meme: Give Me No More Than Just Enough (OQ), please :)

**Angst**

He wakes to a bed empty but still warm, the vague memory of her urging him back to sleep just moments ago, but then he hears the coughing, the gasping, gagging, wretched coughing and his heart springs into his throat, his legs swing over the bed, his feet carry him to where she is laid low against the bathroom cabinet, grasping at the sink’s edge, gasping for air and cough suppressant.

**AU**

The last thing Robin should be thinking of as he sits in a hospital room between his ailing wife and ailing son is that the doctor assigned to Roland is unbearably beautiful, but when Dr. Regina Mills swears to him, promises him, that she will see to it that Roland at least leaves this place with him alive and well, he thinks perhaps she’s an angel sent to soothe his weary soul.

**Crack**

“But why am I a fox?” Robin asks for what has to be the tenth time since the movie started, and even though they are not really together, and his wife is barely in the ground, and Roland is sprawled on his belly on the floor no more than two feet in front of them, Regina can’t help but lean over and rasp hoarsely into his year that it must be because he’s quite foxy.

**First Time**

He waits what he thinks is an appropriate amount of time (but how can one really know what is appropriate when one’s wife has been returned and taken away again by magic and illness respectively) before he gives Regina a proper kiss, but he is still unprepared for how completely utterly lost in her he kinds himself the first time their lips meet after so long apart.

**Fluff**

She glances up from the screen of her phone to check the time in the kitchen clock, wondering how long she has left before she can take her cough suppressant (fifteen minutes, and she’s exhausted and her throat is itchy, scratchy, horribly irritating, but she has Robin to keep her company via video chat and however awkward things may be with Marian so freshly passed, he’s still a comfort to her), and when she glances back down her is looking at her, just _looking at her_ , and when she asks him what he’s staring at, he murmurs, “I’m sorry, you’re just so beautiful…”

**Humor**

The sneeze is unexpected, and… productive, leaving Regina with wide, horrified eyes, and bare hands coated with thick, sticky snot, but Robin just laughs and laughs, laughs until he is nearly in tears, and passes over his handkerchief so she can clean herself up.

**Hurt/Comfort**

“It’s okay to miss her, you know,” Regina tells Robin one night, when she has spent the whole day watching him brood beneath a dark cloud of a mood that won’t seem to lift, and when he looks at her and says nothing she reaches for him, draws him close and wraps her arms around him.

**Smut**

They shouldn’t be doing this, not with Regina battling her yearly bout with bronchitis, but they’ve made it this far, through foreplay and well into actual act, but he can hear her gasping her pleasure, knows what that leads to, and sure enough as she spills over the edge, she inhales sharply and then she is coughing, coming and coughing, and clamping down hard on him and Robin grimaces at the sudden pressure around his cock and thinks perhaps they’ll wait a few weeks before they do this again.

**UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension)**

Robin is good with his hands, has strong, archer’s hands, and she imagines that they’re good at other things too, good between the thighs, good deep inside of her, and she tells herself not to think about those things as he uses them now, on her shoulders, as they creep down her collar just an inch in a gentle caress; she wonders not for the first time if he knows the difference between wooing her and torturing her, because she’s fairly certain this forced celibacy is the latter and not the former.


End file.
